Blankets, Bells, and Butterscotch
by LilPippin
Summary: Virgil seems a bit Scrooge-like this Christmas.


_A/N: Everyone has been writing Tracy Christmas stories. I figured I'd jump on the bandwagon. I challenged myself and a friend of mine to write a full one-shot by Christmas. I began this story at 9:00 last night and wrote straight with only basic edits. _

_Disclaimer: These characters are not mine._

_Ages: Scott -13; Virgil - 11; John - 9; Gordon- 7; Alan - 5._

* * *

**Blankets, Bells, and Butterscotch **

_A Tracy Christmas story_

Virgil Tracy could remember a time when he had loved Christmas. He had once loved finding the perfect tree, the one that practically asked to be chopped down. He used to love going caroling with his mother, just them two. He had loved decorating the tree with homemade ornaments and watching his father place the angel on the top of the tree. He remembered hoping that he would grow as tall as him one day. And as his father kissed his mother passionately, Virgil had once made disgusted faces with Scotty to embarrass his parents, but be smiling inside anyway. He had once loved that Christmas showed how much everyone cared for each other.

He had also loved presents. And Santa. Of course, he had once believed that Santa could do anything.

But Virgil Tracy hated Christmas now. He hated the artificial tree his Dad had bought because he no longer had time to take his family out to the tree farm. He hated that the ornaments on the tree were always unevenly spaced and how Scott would glare at him if he tried to say anything about it. He hated listening to Christmas carols for an entire month, especially that damn shoe song. _What kind of idiot leaves his dying mother just to buy a goddamn pair of _shoes_, for Christ's sake!_

He hated having to pretend that Santa still existed for the little ones. And most of all he hated presents. They just made everyone greedy. There was no more love in Christmas. Virgil curled his Mom's blanket around himself, wishing that this Christmas had never happened.

There was knock on the door and a muffled, "Virgil?" It was Scott. "I'm coming in, Virgil." Virgil felt the bed dip from where Scott had sat down. His back tensed as Scott placed a hand on his shoulder. Sensing his brother's discomfort, he removed his hand.

"You don't have to come up here just to make me feel better."

"I didn't. I came up here to light Mom's candle. I do that every year; you know that. I just wanted to check in. You left rather quickly this morning." Virgil was silent. "You must have worked so hard on gifts this year," Scott continued. Virgil had. He'd started in the middle of the year, so he could paint each of his family members something beautiful. Scott's had been an airplane flying off into the sunset. "I loved my painting, Virg. You are very talented."

"Not enough," Virgil mumbled.

"What was that?" Virgil didn't answer, but Scott knew anyway. "They loved them, Virgil. Don't think differently." They hadn't loved them. Alan had merely glanced at the car race Virgil had created before moving on to the biggest gift in his pile, the expensive game system that had come out this year. Gordon's gaze had lingered on the seascape, but he too set the painting aside for the new virtual game system. John had clearly been awed with his brother's work, but instead of saying thank you he had informed his brother that the title didn't fit, as the Horseshoe was a _nebula_, not a _supernova_, but he did concede that the colors were nice. And then Dad –

"Don't lie to me, Scott."

"You should come back down. We're going to do a light brunch and then Grandma will be here for dinner."

"Not hungry."

"Are you sick?" Surprised, Scott reached over to feel his brother's forehead, but Virgil swatted at his hand.

"Don't. I'm Fine. Just leave me be." Virgil pulled at his blanket, telling Scott to get the hell off. He caught the message. There was no fighting with his younger brother. Virgil was just as stubborn as their father.

"Merry Christmas, Virgil," he said as he quietly shut the door. Eventually, after lying in his bed with his angry thoughts, Virgil fell asleep.

* * *

He awoke to the sound of bells. _Sleigh bells? In the middle of nowhere?_ Virgil, still wearing his jeans and green sweater from Christmas morning despite his bare feet, walked to window and looked out at their farm and the lonely driveway. The bells seemed nearer now, almost as if they –

_ You have got to be kidding me. The rooftop?_

Virgil rolled his eyes. Gordon was playing his tricks again, dragging John down with him. How else would Gordon have found out how to get on the roof? Dad would kill them if he found out. He felt sick thinking about his father and the look he had given him.

Virgil shook his head, clearing his mind of the pain the image had brought. He walked out of his room, down the quiet hallway and into the comfy living room where Gordon and Alan should've already set up their gaming system. They hadn't. The living room was empty.

"Scott?" Nothing. "Where have you gotten to?" he whispered. He felt a pang in his chest. What if Grandma had changed her mind and was having Christmas dinner at her place? Had his family left him here? Alone? Surely, they would've left a message. The kitchen. That's where they left all messages.

Except the kitchen table was empty. No bright pink post-it-note or anything. Virgil didn't know what to do.

"You lost?" Virgil jumped at the gruff voice behind him, turning to see an old man in a red suit. "Of course you're lost. You're Virgil.

"S-santa?" he stuttered.

"That's my name. Don't wear it out. Well I suppose you could wear it out if you wanted. I do have plenty of spares. Kris for one. Nice to meet you in person, Virgil. I am Kris Kringle. Do you have any milk?" With that Kris searched the refrigerator while Virgil looked on in shock.

_There was no way._

"How the hell did you get in my house?"

"The fireplace, of course. The reindeer are a little irritated that I had to make another trip out after last night."

"Reindeer?"

Kris swung around, grasping a carton of milk. "You don't believe I'm Santa, do you?" Kris grabbed a glass for his milk and told Virgil to sit down. "I'm here for one reason, Virgil. I _am _Santa, whether you believe it or not isn't important. But I am required to remind you of a Christmas from long ago. I need you to come with me."

"Not happening, Mr. Ghost of Christmas Past. I hate this stupid story, there's no way I am going to be in it." Virgil roughly removed himself from the kitchen table, sarcastically waved at Kris, and sprinted back into the living room. Sighing, Kris followed. Virgil still stood in the doorway, seemingly entranced by the sight in front of him.

"You can't just run off from me, Virgil. Bring back some memories?" Slowly, Virgil nodded. He felt as if he were watching a home movie, except that he could move within it. He could even feel the heat from the fireplace.

"I suppose the same rules apply. Can't hear us, can't see us."

"Yep."

"So I am just supposed to watch Mom until you decide to point out some meaningful bullshit?"

"Kind of." Virgil could live with that; he had once loved watching his mother. A pregnant Lucille Tracy was sitting on the couch, cooing to a blue bundle of blankets. Virgil could see a small tuft of red hair and knew that this was Gordon at ten months old. His smaller self was ripping at a pile of presents, mirroring a younger Scott. They were four and six, respectively. Little John was examining a red, star-shaped ornament that he had taken off the tree.

"Put that back, Johnny," Lucille said, smiling at her curious baby.

"Daddy says red stars are big," he threw his hands wide. Then he looked at the small ornament he held in his hand. "Tiny." Lucille laughed, shaking her head. Jeff, who had been sitting with his wife on the couch, moved next to his young son and placed the ornament back on the tree.

"Why don't you open your gifts, Johnny? Like your brothers." Johnny solemnly nodded then grabbed the nearest present, a small box decorated with snowman wrapping paper. Lucille smiled and picked up a present for Gordon, opening the gift for him. It was a baby blanket. She lifted the pastel green blanket up to Gordon's face. He reached out a tiny hand for the blanket, so Lucille gently replaced the blue blanket with the new one. She'd crocheted baby blankets for all of her sons. Virgil and Scott had outgrown their baby blankets already; she'd made new ones for them this Christmas. Seeing her second oldest pick up the large box she'd delicately wrapped, Lucille shifted her gaze to watch Virgil open her present.

Virgil-of-Then ripped open the box, revealing a blue, green, and white striped afghan. He politely told his mom 'thank you' before placing it back under the tree and picked up the next present.

Virgil-of-Now, with older eyes, was able to see how downcast his mother looked with his reaction. Kris encouraged Virgil to watch young Scott open his mother's gift. His reaction was almost the same. His next gift was a model airplane, for which he shouted "Yes!" before jumping into his father's arms. "thankyouthankyouthankyou," he said into his father's shoulder.

"Mom looks so upset."

"She does," Kris said.

"We were idiots."

"No, you were young. Where's that blanket now?"

"In my room. On my bed."

"Exactly."

Virgil-of-Then and Little Scott had finished opening their gifts and were playing with various toys. Lucille joined her sons, placing Gordon on the ground to crawl to his father and Johnny who was still opening gifts. All smiles, she picked up Virgil and gave him a kiss, doing the same for Scott right after.

"Merry Christmas, loveys."

The image faded and Virgil-of-Now found himself reaching out for his mother one last time. It was just him and Kris in the living room again. Virgil turned on the old man.

"I wasn't done.

"Yes, you were."

Virgil pouted. "I get the point, okay. They kids will understand my gift eventually, yada yada. Can I go back to Mom now?"

"No can do, Virgil." Kris ushered him back into the kitchen. "I need to go now. Wait here."

Kris snapped his fingers and disappeared. From the kitchen, Virgil could hear the distinct sound of fading

bells.

bells.

bells.

* * *

He jerked awake at the sound of crashing. _What a crazy dream! Santa! _He wondered why he was sitting in the kitchen barefoot. He must have walked in his sleep. There was an empty glass on the table. He must have had milk. While sleeping. _Weird_.

He sniffed the air. _Butterscotch?_

"Grandpa?"

His grandfather rose from where he had been kneeling on the floor, smiling at his grandson.

"Grandpa!" Virgil flung himself at the older man.

"Careful. Watch the glass," Grandpa said, wrapping his arms around the boy.

"Huh?"

"I wanted to grab a slice of your Grandmother's pie before we had to go. But I dropped the plate. Don't hurt yourself, son."

"I won't. But what are you doing here?"

"I thought you've read the story before?"

"I have! Oh. So I wasn't dreaming?"

"Well you are. And you aren't. But remember that what's happening is real, son."

Virgil was confused still, but continued, "So are you supposed to be the Ghost of Christmas Present?"

"Not exactly. I'm more of Christmas Future if you want to compare to the story. We had to mix things up for you."

"Okay. So where are we going?"

"BACK to the FUTURE!"

"What?"

"Oh yeah. I suppose that was too early for you. Don't worry about it." Virgil roughly coughed. He must be getting a cold from walking around in bare feet. "We're losing time. Let's go, son. Guess I won't be getting your Grandma's pie this time."

He sighed and indicated for Virgil to grab his arm. Virgil did so, and suddenly found himself – _on a space station?_ There was a small decorated tree in a corner.

"Grandpa, where are we?"

"Your brother lives here, in space."

"John gets into NASA!"

"Well, yes. But…Well, never mind. You'll know soon enough."

"I don't understand, Grandpa."

"You aren't meant to yet. Just watch your brother."

An older John, graceful and lithe, was sitting at his computer, intent on whatever project he was working on. John, wearing a blue uniform (_that doesn't look like NASA_!) stretched, his back cracking, indicating to Virgil just how much stress his brother was under. There were dark bags under his eyes. John was exhausted. He looked lonely.

"Why is he alone on Christmas?"

"It's what needs to be done, Virgil. You'll understand one day."

"No one should be alone on Christmas."

"I agree."

"Poor John. What is he doing, Grandpa?"

"Trying to finish his book by a deadline."

"What book?"

"An astronomy textbook. Why don't you go look at the computer, Virgil?"

Virgil glanced speculatively at Grandpa before walking to John, reading the screen from behind John's shoulder. He was so close. He coughed.

John twitched.

"Better back up a little, Virgil. Your brother always was a bit too in tune for his own good." Virgil nodded, backing up. He could still see the computer screen.

John had Photoshop open and was working on the cover for his book. The image was the Horseshoe Nebula, but something seemed different.

"It's my painting! Look Grandpa, he's using my painting."

"I know, son."

"I thought he hated it."

"Come here, Virgil." Virgil returned to Grandpa only to find himself enveloped in his arms (and the smell of Butterscotch). "John's different. He's always been intuitive, uncomfortably so to normal standards. But he also doesn't know how to express himself. Not like you. He wanted to correct you simply because you were misled. He thought you should know. He was never saying that he hated the painting. He loved it, Virgil. He just didn't know how to tell you at the time. This is how he's doing it now." Grandpa indicated the older John.

Virgil nodded. Coughed again. Damn cold.

"It's warm here, Grandpa. Can we go home now?"

"One more stop, son.

"Okay." Virgil grabbed his Grandfather's hand. And they were in what looked like a study. Jeff Tracy, it seemed, was in the middle of a conference call. Virgil felt the bile rise. He couldn't stand his father right now.

"I don't want to be here, Grandpa." Virgil was shaking.

"It's going to be okay." Grandpa placed his hand on Virgil's shoulder. "Look around." There were pictures everywhere. Picture of the boys. Pictures of people he didn't know.

Pictures of Lucille. Virgil whimpered.

"Look up on the left wall, son." Virgil glanced upwards. There it was. The picture he had given his father. It had been Lucille's favorite image of both of them. Virgil had copied the image, making sure to perfect their faces and hands before he attempted such a challenge. It needed to be perfect. In the picture Jeff and Lucille were standing out on the porch, kissing underneath the mistletoe. The landscape was white. It had snowed the Christmas that image had been taken.

Virgil felt tears and quickly wiped them away before Grandpa could see.

"I worked so hard on it, Grandpa. And he looked at me with hate."

"He doesn't hate you. But he wasn't ready for that gift just yet. Your father hasn't healed enough, Virgil. Give him time. You'll see. When he has healed, your father will love that painting."

"It doesn't seem like he'll ever heal."

"He will. He will, Virgil," he said this with force, grasping Virgil by the shoulders. Jeff Tracy ended his call, sighing. He looked over at the photo of Lucille, smiled.

"Merry Christmas, baby. Time to brave the boys." He was whistling "Carol of the Bells" as he left the room.

"See, Virgil?" Virgil nodded. "You're warm. Time to go. Cheer up, son. One more ghost to go," Grandpa said.

They were back in the kitchen. Grandpa Tracy faded from sight, a slight smile gracing his feature. He waved and then was gone.

* * *

This time Virgil stayed awake. He knew what would be coming next. A figure hooded in a black coat swooped into the room, trailed by a gray mist. It covered his face and Virgil found himself coughing.

Virgil trembled. "If this is where you show me my gravestone-" He trailed off. The figure was shaking its head. It held out a gloved hand, which Virgil reluctantly grasped. They were in a graveyard. "You're kidding me! I just said-" The figure shook its head again, and pointed to a headstone.

Virgil, still shaking and expecting to see his own name, walked up to the grave:

**Scott Carpenter Tracy**

**Beloved son and brother**

**April 4, 2035 – December 25, 2048**

"No! That's today. He can't die today! Not on Christmas" Virgil shouted, dropping to his knees in front of the grave. He gently touched Scott's name. His body seized. He was bombarded by images in his head.

_A candle flame grown large enough to light the curtains nearby. _

_Scott's room, his bed covered in flame. _

_The shrill of a smoke alarm. _

_Jeff and Grandma ushering the kids out of the house._

_Scott looking up at where his window should've been. Then next door to Virgil's room._

"_VIRGIL!" _

_Scott running back to the house. Jeff yelling at his son to come back. _

"_VIRGIL!" A yell. _

"SCOTT NO!" It was himself screaming; he was lying on the ground, in the arms of the hooded figure. "Please, this can't be happening now. You can't be the Ghost of Christmas Present because this isn't happening now." Virgil cried hysterically, coughing.

The figure pulled back its hood, pulled Virgil to her chest.

"You still have time, baby. That's why I'm here. Wake up now, love."

* * *

_Wake up, baby_

Mom?

Virgil coughed. He opened his eyes to a smoke-filled room. He crawled out of bed, bringing his mother's blanket with him. The blanket stopped some of the smoke. Weakly, he crawled to the door. He pressed his hand to it, drawing back sharply. Hot.

He needed to get out. He needed to save himself so he could save Scott.

Virgil crawled back the way he came, past the bed, to the window. He used the ledge to pull himself up. He could see the flames rising from the next window, snaking their way through the wall to his own room. Behind him the fire had engulfed his door.

It had to be now. So, Virgil jumped.

"VIRGIL!"

Was he too late? He hit the ground, coughed. The world faded to black.

* * *

"Oh god, Virgil. Wake up. Please wake up. Come on."

Blearily, Virgil opened his eyes. Scott! His eyes focused on his older brother. He was okay. Scott hadn't run back into the house. He was here. Here with him. Alive.

"Thank God, Virgil," Scott was saying. Then came the pain. Virgil whimpered

"You're going to be okay, Virgil. Just a broken leg and some smoke inhalation," his father said.

"Scott's room?" he tried to say. He ended up coughing instead.

Scott shook his head. His room had been devastated. Virgil's room too. But the fire department had gotten there quickly, so the fire hadn't spread much farther than the bedrooms.

"Don't speak, Virgil. The ambulance will be here soon. Don't worry."

His head rested in his father's lap. Scott was sitting, alive, by his side, holding his hand. In the distance he could see his Grandmother taking care of the children. They were all here. They were all okay.

The ambulance arrived and the paramedics jumped out to take care of the young boy. Scott was pushed away, but Virgil knew he was safe, so he didn't panic. An oxygen mask was placed on his face. Virgil, holding his mother's blanket like a lifeline, was loaded into the ambulance. He could feel his father's hand in his own. Virgil felt the ambulance drive off to the music of sleigh bells and the smell of Butterscotch.

His family was safe. And Virgil Tracy no longer hated Christmas.


End file.
